Use
by tsukihito
Summary: Atobe uses Jirou to replace what he cannot have. Jirou becomes addicted.


Hello! This time its a dabble in first person perspective, as told by Jirou. I'm not sure whats up with me and locker rooms.......this is my 3rd fic using the locker rooms as a setting! I also can't believe I managed to write something with this high a rating. O.O But this idea bugged me and wouldn't leave, so here it is~ the first part was written for the 50 Scenes challenge on Livejournal. The prompt was #060 Use me.

This fic revolves around a question posed one night while I was hanging out with friends. We began asking random questions, so I asked, "Would you rather be with the one you love knowing that they loved someone else and you were just a fling, or be in a serious relationship with someone who you knew loved you, but you didn't love back?" We all picked being the fling, because at least we'll be with the one we love. I think Jirou's answer is obvious.

But sorry for all the ranting~ without further ado, here is "Use." Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Sadly, I own nothing.

* * *

As he pins me painfully to the lockers and unbuttons my uniform shirt I begin to tremble, partially out of excitement and partially out of anticipation and uncertainty. I can hear my heart pounding loudly in my ears, but I don't try to resist. I know what he is after.

He tosses my shirt carelessly to the ground, slate grey eyes flashing dangerously as he moves toward me with unnatural confidence, ravaging my neck with hot, wet kisses, slightly calloused hands running up my slim back and latching onto my shoulders. My back arches at his smooth touch and I let out an involuntary shudder as he begins to move lower, kissing and biting at my exposed chest, our erections rubbing together though our uniform pants.

He turns me around to face the lockers and his arms snake around my waist and begin to undo my belt buckle, the warmth of our bodies pressed together almost unbearable. I close my eyes and lean my sweaty forehead against the cool locker door.

"Why, Atobe?" The question slips, my breathing heavy and erratic. "Why me?"

He pulls the belt from my waist with one fluid motion and begins working on the button of my pants.

"I need you, Jirou," Atobe whispers, breath ghosting over my ear and sending tingles throughout my entire body. He manages to get the button and zipper open and drops my pants and boxers.

That's not the answer that I was searching for, but as he licks his fingers and slowly penetrates me it might as well be. My eyes fly open and I let out a soft moan at the strange new feeling, my own fingers digging into my palms that are pressed against the lockers. He moves around experimentally at first, my soft moans and shudders a sign of encouragement before inserting another finger. I let out a louder moan, the feeling indescribable.

Just as I feel like I've had enough, that another one of his touches may break me, he removes his fingers, and I hear the rustle of clothing as his uniform shirt, pants and underwear fall to the floor. He takes me by the shoulders and leans me over the clubroom bench. And as he begins to thrust into me, all coherent thought is lost to a tainted whirl of touches and sensations that I never even knew existed, and pain and pleasure beyond anything I had experienced before.

"Use me!" I cry out shrilly, drunk off the pleasure of his touch. "Use me as much as you want, Atobe, I'm yours!"

"As you wish, Jirou," he cries out huskily, his breathing as heavy and erratic as my own, and all the more irresistible.

And that's just what he does.

* * *

When everything is over we are left lying in a sweaty, sticky heap on the clubroom benches, faces flushed, breathing as if we'd just played the most tiring game of tennis in our lives. He is the first one to get up and places my clothes in a pile next to me on the bench as he changes and begins to clean up. As I finally begin to sit up and put on my boxers and pants, he shoulders his tennis bag and leaves the locker room without a single word or glace in my direction. I'm unsure if it is out of shame, consideration, or just his normal business-like demeanor, but somehow I don't seem to mind.

After he leaves, my mind is in a haze. Everything that happened seems so surreal, and I feel exhausted. I get off of the bench, buttoning my uniform shirt and slowly making my way to the bathroom. I walk to one of the sinks, turn on the faucet and splash some water against my face to help wake me up, the liquid cool and soothing against my hot, sweaty cheeks. I turn off the faucet and dry my face on my uniform sleeve. As I straighten I am greeted by my reflection, slightly distorted in the fading evening sunlight as it dances across the grimy bathroom mirror.

I look pale and tired, my tousled blonde hair damp with sweat, a hicky beginning to form just below my jaw line. In that moment, gazing at my reflection in the mucky glass, the events of the afternoon finally sink in and I feel like the most tainted person in the world. I walk home trying to look as inconspicuous and possible, as if someone would have jumped out from around the corner and admonished me for my horrible sin. When I get home I take a long hot shower, but the water does nothing to wash away my sullied thoughts.

That night I lay awake in bed. No matter how tired I am or how ashamed I feel, I can't stop thinking about him; the way the light danced wildly in his eyes, his self assured, almost rough touch, the unbearable heat of our bodies pressed so close together, the strange mix of pleasure and pain. I shut my eyes tightly as I roll onto my side, wishing that he had never touched me but craving him all the more.

* * *

If you've come this far, thanks so much for reading! As always, reviews and constructive criticism are appreciated.


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